


Another Christmas in the Trenches

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalism, Christmas, Gen, Minor Character Death, Trench Warfare, War, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: MTOs don't get to celebrate Yuletide.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Another Christmas in the Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> Theme song: "Belleau Wood" by Garth Brooks
> 
> I was inspired to write a Decepticon Yule/Christmas story with Deathsaurus and company. Des is younger here, a recently promoted field commander in the front ranks of the Autobot/Decepticon war, and the fighting has bogged down into trench warfare. I meant this story as fluff, but with trench warfare and maybe a little light cannibalism.
> 
> To suit my agenda of wanting to write a Yule/Christmas fic, I decided that Cybertron celebrates the Winter Solstice and I called it "Yuletide" for the easiest human translation.
> 
> I don't know if I'll do more chapters this year (or next year) but it's possible.
> 
> Happy Holidays.

Drillhorn hated this time of year. 

The sad thing was that he used to love Yuletide. Drillhorn had so many fond memories of getting together with his fellow students at the Polyhex War Academy. They’d sit around drinking special rich fuel blends, exchanging gifts, laughing, telling stories, singing the songs that were only sung around this time of year. Though the skies were dark and the stars were distant, the streets of Polyhex were illuminated with colourful light displays. The rest of the city celebrated with decorations in the shop windows and the balconies of the hab suites, parades through town, the sound of bells. Even in the early days of the war, there had been Yuletide. 

But not any longer. Not for Drillhorn. 

He’d caused too much of a stir—rubbed too many high-ranking officers the wrong way with his radical theses. Or maybe his mistake had been putting one of those theses into action. The one that theorized that soldiers were willing to give their lives for leaders who cared about them; and reluctant to do so if they knew they were being used and discarded. 

At first he’d done it because he felt that it would be the most effective way of getting the best out of his troops. After he’d been accused of putting his soldiers’ welfare ahead of accomplishing the mission, he’d persisted, because it had been the right thing to do. It was one thing to ask his people to risk their lives for victory and quite another to spend those lives in a cavalier fashion. His people were not cannon fodder. 

His punishment was to become cannon fodder himself. 

Decepticon High Command had sent him to the front lines, to the 895 th Assault Division. A unit consisting almost entirely of MTOs, with only a smattering of pre-war constructed cold mechs among their number. There were two other forged mechs besides Drillhorn here, and both of them had the word _washout_ in their files. 

Drillhorn had been sent here as adjutant to an up-and-coming young officer—a MTO who’d taken over command of the unit after the previous commander, a Forged soldier, had been killed in action. The new commander had proven exceedingly effective and, based on his stellar track record, he had been permitted to keep his command. Drillhorn’s function was to keep the MTO in line. 

His name was Scimitar, but everyone called him Deathsaurus. 

Much to Drillhorn’s surprise, Deathsaurus agreed with him on the best way to treat the troops. Furthermore, Deathsaurus was a brilliant commander—cunning, unpredictable, a renegade through-and-through, but his people loved him, and so did Drillhorn. 

Three years later, Drillhorn could no longer be sorry about his posting. It was dangerous—the 895th was always in the thick of combat—but his life had never been more rewarding than it was now. 

It was only around this time of year that Drillhorn thought about what he’d lost. 

His fellow Forged officers were once again gathering for Yuletide, sitting around the War Academy’s mess, laughing and singing and toasting one another with delicious drinks and fancy treats. Drillhorn was stuck here on the front lines, waiting for the Autobots to launch yet another attack. Or for Decepticon High Command to order yet another offense. 

MTOs did not get to celebrate Yuletide. 

Drillhorn had decided, his very first year with the 895th, that he would not tell the others about the holiday taking place everywhere else on Cybertron. The MTOs already had so many justifiable reasons to be bitter. What was the use of adding to them? It was needlessly cruel to describe yet another privilege that they’d been denied. 

Lost in thought, aimlessly wandering the Decepticon fortifications, Drillhorn did not notice that someone was stalking him. Not until a claw tapped his shoulder, making him jump. 

“If I was an Autobot, you’d be dead,” Deathsaurus said. 

Drillhorn exhaled through his vents. “An Autobot wouldn’t get this far into our defenses.” 

“You hope.” Deathsaurus was, as usual, in his alt mode. Drillhorn was no longer surprised to have deep intellectual conversations with someone who stood on all fours. 

Drillhorn sighed. “You’re right, of course.” 

Deathsaurus cocked his head—a gesture of curiosity. “What’s got you so distracted tonight?” 

Drillhorn did not want to tell him. Deathsaurus, though a field commander, was not that much luckier than his fellow MTOs. Any privilege he had was hard-earned by his clever leadership and terrifying lack of regard for his own safety in combat. Drillhorn had no desire to further burden his commander. His friend. 

“Just reminiscing about the War Academy.” That was at least partly true. Drillhorn added, “My old life, before the 895th.” 

“I see.” 

Then Drillhorn made a mistake he’d seen countless mechanisms make before. He assumed he’d fooled Deathsaurus. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head the other way and said, “Perhaps you could help me with a problem I’ve been having.” 

“Sure,” Drillhorn replied, relieved that the conversation was turning away from his morose thoughts. 

“I believe it’s a morale issue. It seems to happen around this time every year, but only among the pre-war constructed cold mechanisms…and the Forged ones. Like you.” 

Drillhorn felt a chill run up his spinal strut. 

Deathsaurus fixed him with a penetrating gaze. It made Drillhorn feel as though he was locked in the center of an enemy’s crosshairs. In that moment he was infinitely grateful not to be an Autobot. He should count himself fortuante that Deathsaurus wanted an explanation and not his life. 

“Every year, like clockwork, around the time of the winter solstice.” Deathsaurus wrapped his tail around his forelegs. “Do you think you could provide some insight on this matter?” 

Drillhorn knew when he was beaten. “I didn’t want to tell you.” 

“Because?” 

“Because it’s not going to change anything.” 

Deathsaurus—ever the first one into the breach, ever the first one to face the hard truths—answered as Drillhorn expected. “I want to know.” 

“It, uh, it might hurt your feelings.” 

Deathsaurus’s optics flashed. “I want to _know_ ,” he said insistently. “Tell me.” 

Drillhorn gave up. He couldn’t defy his commander’s order. “It’s Yuletide.” 

Deathsaurus’s blank expression proved to Drillhorn that Deathsaurus did not know what Yuletide was. 

“It’s a holiday. Dating back before the war. A celebration of the winter solstice.” 

“Like the Festival of Lost Light.” The MTOs knew what that was. They were intimately familiar with mourning their dead. 

Drillhorn kicked at nothing with his left foot. “It’s a happy celebration,” he muttered. 

“So. You’re depressed because you aren’t part of it.” 

Drillhorn responded without thinking. “Have you noticed that all the units on the front lines right now are squadrons made up primarily of MTOs? Everyone _else_ has been pulled back to enjoy Yuletide in the rear, or on leave in the cities.” 

Drillhorn was shocked at the anger and hurt clearly audible in his voice. He thought he’d done a better job of holding in his feelings. Now they all poured out of him, and the caustic words burned his throat and tasted bitter in his mouth. “I understand that _someone_ has to guard the fortifications, but they ought to rotate the units. Let us take turns being on duty on Yuletide. Instead it’s _always us_ , the 895th and the units like it, always the MTOs doing the dirty work while everyone else has fun.” 

“And we don’t even complain,” Deathsaurus mused. “We don’t argue. Because most of my squadron don’t even know what Yuletide is.” 

“I didn’t want to tell them,” Drillhorn admitted. “I can’t give us leave passes for Yuletide. I can’t fix this problem. All I can do is rub it in that once again, everyone else gets something that they don’t get.” 

“Because High Command has _taken_ it from them,” Deathsaurus said with a snarl. 

Drillhorn remembered how he’d been afraid, at first, when Deathsaurus got agitated like this. Deathsaurus’s optics blazed like the Inferno itself. His tail swung behind him like a whip. His wings flared, making him look even bigger and more imposing. He growled and hissed like an enraged beast. His beak gaped, displaying three rows of needle teeth. The overall effect was absolutely terrifying and at first Drillhorn had thought that Deathsaurus was liable to bite his head off. These days Drillhorn knew that it was just Deathsaurus’s way of expressing his anger and frustration. 

It was when Deathsaurus got _quiet_ that it was time to be afraid. 

Deathsaurus folded his wings, getting control of himself, and when he spoke, his voice was a deadly whisper. “They want to take something from my squadron? We’re going to take it _back_.” 

Drillhorn felt himself torn between that same old sinking feeling he always got when Deathsaurus thought up something outrageous—it was Drillhorn’s task to convince his commander to at least consider toning it down—and a brand new feeling Drillhorn hadn’t felt in many centuries. 

A wild, giddy _hope_. 

Drillhorn tried to rein it in. He was a warrior, a professional – his duty was to think clearly and rationally. But the emotion turned into chaotic electrical pulses in his neural net, causing his spark to leap in its chamber. 

Could Deathsaurus really…? 

“How?” Drillhorn asked. 

Deathsaurus furrowed his brow. “I’ll need your help. Do you think you can teach the troops those songs you mentioned?” 

Last night the troops had been singing a song about a cannonformer who got an explosive round lodged up his aft. Drillhorn was certain a few carols would be an improvement. “Yes, sir.” 

“Put in an order with supply for some of that fancy fuel you mentioned. Use my petty cash fund to pay for it. It might not be enough to buy a feast, but it should be enough to give everyone a special treat.” 

“I’ll make that happen.” 

“Can you delegate a few soldiers to organize teams and create some of those decorations? My people are inventive. They’ll find interesting uses for all sorts of scraps.” 

“Can do.” 

Deathsaurus furled his tail around his forelimbs. “What else do we need?” 

Drillhorn felt his spark spin. Oh, he was asking for too much. He should just shut up. But that wild hope opened Drillhorn’s lips and said “Gifts?” 

Deathsaurus paced the hallway, wagging his tail and talking out loud. “I have some shanix stashed away in a private account. I was intending to buy a few rounds for the troops on our next leave, but now I think that money is better spent giving every soldier a small allowance. Something they can use to buy gifts.” He paused. “Or at least one gift.” 

Drillhorn’s spark bubbled over with hope. “We should do Secret Solenoid!” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s when everyone puts their names in a random number generator and lets it choose who they’ll each buy gifts for. That way everyone is giving, and getting, one gift each. Usually the organizer sets a price limit so nobody goes overboard—and nobody else feels ripped off.” 

“Would you be able to organize such a thing?” 

“If I taught marching drill to the shavings at the War Academy, then I can _absolutely_ set up a Secret Solenoid.” 

Deathsaurus chuckled. “Then it sounds as though our Yuletide celebration is coming together nicely.” 

Suddenly Drillhorn fell silent. 

He’d forgotten the most important thing of all. 

It snuffed out the hope in his spark like a gust over a newly lit match. 

“Deathsaurus,” he said quietly. It felt as though his mouth didn’t really belong to him. It was difficult to force his voxcoder to emit the correct words and not just some garbled noise. “We can’t do this.” 

Deathsaurus cocked his head in an expression of curiosity. “Really?” he asked, in a tone that implied skepticism. “Why not?” 

“The _Autobots_.” 

Deathsaurus blinked and held his silence. Drillhorn wasn’t sure if Deathsaurus really didn’t get it or if he just wanted to hear it from Drillhorn. They stared at one another for a few moments before Drillhorn’s impatience overcame his reluctance. 

“The Autobots aren’t going to let us sit around and have a merry Yuletide,” Drillhorn grumbled. "We need to be doing what we’re doing every night—keeping watch against a surprise attack. If we stand down to give our attention to gifts and decorations and partying, and then the Autobots attack, we’ll all be slaughtered.” 

“That’s true.” Deathsaurus scratched his cheek with his claws. “Yuletide celebrations will prove difficult as long as there’s the distraction of an Autobot threat.” 

“There’s no point in even thinking about Yuletide on the front lines. It’s just one of those silly fantasies that does nothing but make your real life even more miserable in comparison.” Drillhorn felt himself sinking down into an increasingly morose mood. “If it was so easy to give the 895 th a Yuletide, I’d have already cleared it with you and put it into operation.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “One could hardly expect you to accomplish a Yuletide truce. That sort of thing really is a commander’s job.” 

“I suppose,” Drillhorn muttered. Maybe he could find some paperwork to keep him busy. Too busy to think about what he was missing. What the entire 895 th was missing. 

“Do you think you could get started on those other preparations in the meantime?” 

Drillhorn blinked. “I thought we’d just decided it wasn’t worth trying.” 

Deathsaurus blinked back. “I thought we’d just decided I needed to do a commander’s job.” 

Drillhorn was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions that came over him. Shock, and hope, and fear, and another emotion he could not name. “What are you going to do?” Drillhorn whispered. 

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “If you ask that again, I’ll answer you honestly. But before you do, consider this: I strongly advise you maintain your _plausible deniability_.” 

_The absolute madman_ . Deathsaurus intended to do exactly what Drillhorn was afraid he’d do. It was liable to blow up in a most unpleasant way—either due to the Autobots or due to Decepticon High Command. When it did, all Drillhorn would be able to do would be to say he didn’t know, none of them had known, Deathsaurus had acted unilaterally… 

Deathsaurus, once again, throwing himself into the line of fire for his troops. 

Drillhorn had never expected to feel this sort of affection for his commander. It didn’t matter if Drillhorn didn’t get a Yuletide. He couldn’t let Deathsaurus take these kinds of risks. “It’s too dangerous,” Drillhorn said stubbornly. 

“So we should do what’s safest.” Sarcasm half-smothered his words. “Keep our heads down and be grateful to be alive. Give up more, and more, and _more_ , to do what High Command asks of us. What kind of a life is that?” 

Drillhorn had no answer. 

“Our lives are short enough _already_. I’m entirely prepared to take chances to make them _worthwhile_. To put some joy into the lives of my troops. My people who did nothing to deserve this hand they’ve been dealt.” 

Drillhorn thought about that. Maybe he could do without a Yuletide this year. He had plenty of good memories to savour whenever he pleased. But Jallguar, and Hellbat, and Killbison…they didn’t have that. 

Drillhorn set his jaw. “What can I do to help?” he asked. 

Deathsaurus squinted his optics in pleasure. “I’ll tell Leozack he’s got operational command and I’ll get Lyzack to distribute the shanix to the troops. Your job is to show the squadron what it means to celebrate Yuletide. I want to hear a song when I come back.” 

“When will that be?” 

“Hopefully not long.” 

Drillhorn felt that tremor of fear again. “And you don’t need support, or artillery, or…?” 

“If I need artillery, I’ll have made an error,” Deathsaurus said casually. “But that will be Leozack’s concern.” 

Drillhorn shook his head in wonder. “You’re insane,” he breathed. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. 

“Merry Yuletide, my adjutant.” 


End file.
